Gabriel watched a series of confused expressions struggle across Lucifer’s face as the confrontation he’d clearly been expecting didn’t occur.
“Well . . . how am I to find it, then?” Lucifer sputtered.
“I’ll draw you a map.” The Creator smiled, producing, as he spoke, a sheet of paper with several simple features already drawn upon it, and handing this to Lucifer.
“This is all?” Lucifer asked, perusing the map suspiciously. “Just follow this little highway? That seems awfully simple.”
“The best hiding places are,” said the Creator, “or were.”
“You’re so smug.” Lucifer frowned. “But we both know it was some creature of Yours who pulled Joby from the fire just as I had won.”
“If you had won, we wouldn’t be here debating the outcome, would we?”
“I had won, and You know it!” Lucifer snapped.
“Gabe,” the Creator asked, “under oath as the wager’s official witness, have I broken any least term of our agreement?”
“No, Lord,” Gabriel answered, trying not to look ashamed. “Under oath as witness, You have not.”
“There you have it, Lucifer. My servant does not lie any more than I do. If you’ve some proof to the contrary, present it. Otherwise, I’ve things to attend to.”
Day’s end found Joby back on Main Street, wandering wearily past shops decked in gold and silver, scarlet and evergreen. Cheerful conversation and occasional carols wafted from every doorway. Everyone had been very friendly, but none had been hiring. Next time, Joby chided himself glumly, he’d have to run away earlier in the season.
Outside a candy shop, he was arrested by the scents of peppermint, cinnamon, and chocolate, but the smell was all he could afford. Sunset was not far off, and the clear evening was quickly growing chill. He’d still found nowhere to stay that night. It was Christmas Eve. Shouldn’t there at least be room for him in a barn somewhere?
At the thought, he realized what any more-veteran bum would have known from the start, and turned back to head up Shea Street toward Taubolt’s only church. Like everything else here, it was just a short walk away, on a hilltop at the north end of town, next to the cemetery. Where better to seek food and shelter on Christmas Eve?
The sign out front read ST. LUKE’S. Joby found the door unlocked, and walked inside to find candles burning unattended on the altar.
“Hello?” he called.
Silence.
A huge mural of waves out on the luminous night sea covered the entire wall behind the altar. In front of this hung a crucifix. On a stand below that rested a modest gold tabernacle. Catholic then, Joby thought. The other walls were paneled in darkly gleaming redwood, the high ceiling supported by heavy crossbeams. The air smelled of wood polish, candle wax, and age. Stained-glass windows lined either side of the building: abstract designs radiant with the last fiery light of day. Evergreen garlands and wide velvet ribbons in crimson and white festooned the walls. Small white lights twinkled on Christmas trees to either side of the altar. Joby had not been inside a church since before Lindwald’s death. It felt both comfortingly familiar and vaguely incriminating, as he walked forward and stepped into a pew.
It was impossible to gaze at anything but the mural, and to gaze at that without coming again and again to the crucifix at its center. Across the many years, fragments of his conversation with the old priest, Father Crombie, returned.
They long for another chance. . . . It was far too late to help his Son . . . he helped him anyway. . . . Hope, even for the hopeless. . . . You may be glad . . . someday.
With welling eyes, Joby dropped his head onto his hands atop the pew back. “God.” The whisper left his constricted throat almost of its own volition. “If you’re ever going to help me . . .”
The only answer he received was the sound of his own breathing in the gathering gloom. Then a soft shuffling sound brought his eyes up to find an ancient man in black clerical suit and collar tottering with obvious difficulty through a door to one side of the altar. With an oversize prayer book gripped in both hands, he went slowly onto one knee, rose even more slowly to place the book upon the altar, then stepped back and looked around the apse, as if to check the decorations.
The longer Joby looked, the more familiar the old man seemed. Knowing it could only be wishful thinking, Joby murmured, “Father Crombie?”
Clearly startled, the old priest turned and peered into the unlit church. “Who is that?” he asked in a kindly, still strong voice that Joby remembered with shocking clarity, even after so much time.
The wretched traitor’s trail wasn’t hard to follow. Most of a day later, the wraith’s fear still hung on everything he’d passed, like a long sulfuric fart through the countryside.
“Let’s hope the boy is with him still,” Kallaystra said, wrinkling her pretty nose.
“Security camera,” Malcephalon growled. “I’ll make him wish to die over and over again before I’m finished.”
It rankled him that Kallaystra spared not even a glance in response. Clearly, Lucifer had only sent her along to humiliate him further. Someone “trustworthy” he’d said, to guard against “further incompetence.” Who was Lucifer to talk of incompetence? Malcephalon suspected that, if their glorious leader had ever risked doing anything himself, he’d long ago have proven the most incompetent wretch in Hell. Why couldn’t Kallaystra see that? It was well past time for a change of leadership. If Lucifer lost this wager, his position would certainly be weakened; not an unsatisfying thought.
“This place is noxious,” Kallaystra said crossly. “It’s beginning to distract me.”
Wrapped in his own resentment, Malcephalon hadn’t noticed. But she was right. Some offensive quality was growing stronger all around them as they moved farther into the Creator’s newly revealed preserve.
“Yes. I’ve felt it for some time,” Malcephalon lied, not wanting to seem less observant than his chaperone. “Hardly surprising given the nature of this place.”
“Let’s find that little worm, and get out of here,” Kallaystra complained.
As they pressed farther into Taubolt, the sun fell beneath the treetops, and the unpleasant sensation grew steadily stronger until it threatened to eclipse Williamson’s trail altogether. Malcephalon thought the smell of it familiar. It tugged almost savagely at his memory. But of what?
“This is unendurable!” Kallaystra fumed. “If it gets any worse—”
“There he is!” Malcephalon snarled, pointing at a smudge of vapor hanging motionless against a thorny clump of foliage ahead of them.
What was left of Williamson simply stared with dull resignation as they approached. His form was pale and ragged, as if the torture he so richly deserved was already well along without them.
“The air,” Williamson slurred as they arrived. “Burns . . . burns . . . I was tricked. . . . Cheating. . . . Angels cheating.”
“Fucking flake of dung! You’ve betrayed us all!” Malcephalon shouted, raising both hands to strike.
Williamson shrieked as Malcephalon’s blazing stream of blue fire hit him, but Kallaystra swiftly deflected the killing blow.
“Fool!” she snapped at Malcephalon. “You would destroy him before learning what he knows of the boy? Lucifer was right. You have lost your mind.”
Malcephalon barely kept himself from launching another stream of fire at her. The impudent whore! When she had proven the little rat knew nothing worth saving, not Lucifer himself would prevent his revenge.
“Where is the boy?” Kallaystra demanded of Williamson.
“Took him . . .,” he panted, “to . . . to Taubolt.”
“Who took him?” Kallaystra pressed. “Why didn’t you alert us?”
“Tricked,” Williamson gasped. “I know things . . . things Lucifer must hear. . . . They tricked . . . tricked us all.”
“Who tricked you?” Kallaystra demanded.
“Only Lucifer’s ears,” Williamson moaned. “No one can be trusted.”
“He’s lying!” Malcephalon sneered. “Can’t you see he’s just trying to buy time?”
“Spit it out,” Kallaystra snapped at Williamson, “or I’ll let this fool do what he likes with you. I can be trusted with anything your master needs to know.”
“He . . .,” Williamson breathed, raising a limp hand toward Malcephalon, with the tattered shreds of pure contempt in his eyes. “He . . . cannot . . . be trusted.”
“You worthless, lying piece of—” Malcephalon’s hands flew up to hurl fire again.
“Stop!” Kallaystra shouted, whirling to confront Malcephalon, her own hands raised to strike. “Why are you so eager to destroy him? . . . Why was he left alone all night to guard the boy? I am beginning to wonder. Was it just stupidity?”
“He thinks to spare himself by implicating me!” Malcephalon yelled. “Isn’t it obvious what he’s—”
“Stop!” Kallaystra shouted, whirling to where Williamson had been.
Only then did Malcephalon realize that Williamson had slipped off while they were arguing. The pathetic wraith was already several hundred feet away, struggling farther into Taubolt as if against some fierce, invisible current.
Kallaystra surged after him, but stopped with an obscene exclamation as Williamson screamed in torment, and began to stretch into attenuated fragments, his face drawn taught in silent agony. Then even the fragments of his substance blew apart like smoke on a puff of wind.
Malcephalon hovered in stunned astonishment. He had not seen this for many, many centuries, but he knew now what it was that filled the very fabric of this place, becoming more and more intolerable with each step farther into Taubolt. Being full demons, he and Kallaystra might have gotten much closer and survived, but a frail wisp like Williamson had been too vulnerable.
“The fucking Cup!” Kallaystra hissed. “That’s what this place stinks of!”
“We are indeed betrayed,” Malcephalon murmured palely. “If the boy is in its presence, we will never reach him.”
“Come!” Kallaystra snapped. “There is nothing more we can do here. Lucifer must know of this immediately.”
“Father Crombie?” Joby asked in astonishment.
“Yes?” the priest said, taking the one small step down off the altar with difficulty. “I’m afraid you have me at a disadvantage. It’s so dark, and I cannot place the voice. Let me come a little closer.” He shuffled forward, pulling a pair of wire-framed glasses from his shirt pocket, and setting them carefully in place. “I’m sorry,” Father Crombie smiled, as he came abreast of Joby’s pew, peering down through thick lenses, “but I still can’t place your face. Are you a visitor to Taubolt?”
“I’m Joby Peterson,” he said, struggling not to laugh aloud at the sheer impossibility of what was happening. Suddenly the world seemed full of unlikely coincidences. “You wouldn’t remember me. We only met once, a very long time ago, when you were still at St. Albee’s.”
“St. Albee’s?” Father Crombie exclaimed softly. “My! That was a long time ago!”
“Ben Vierra introduced us.”
“I certainly remember Ben! A delightful boy. What’s your name again?”
“Joby.” He held his hand out, and Father Crombie shook it with a strength that belied his frail gate. “We came to see you one day after church about . . . well, silly kid things, really,” he said, abashed.
Crombie’s grip tightened convulsively as he leaned forward to stare intently at Joby’s face. “Joby Peterson?” he asked, astonished in his turn. “The boy who wished to fight the devil?”
Immediately, Joby was filled with shame. No, he thought. The bum who’s looking for a handout on Christmas Eve.
“Have I got it wrong then?” Crombie asked, mistaking his silence.
“No,” Joby sighed. “That was me.”
“Well I’m astonished!” said the priest. “And delighted! I’ve never forgotten our meeting, you know. You made such an impression on me! How is Ben? He’s not here with you in Taubolt, is he?”
“No,” Joby said. “We haven’t really seen each other . . . for a long time.”
“Ah. Well, of course,” Father Crombie said, sounding disappointed. “People grow and drift apart.” He smiled again. “You’re not boys anymore, are you. Probably have families now, and lives of your own, eh?”
Before this could become even more humiliating, Joby said, “I’m kind of stranded here, Father Crombie. I have nowhere to stay tonight, and I was hoping I might get something to eat.” His face felt like stone. He imagined it crumbling off in shards as Father Crombie’s smile gave way to a sad, half-stricken look.
“You’ve clearly a story to tell,” Father Crombie said, “and I’d like to hear it, if you’ll do me that honor. Would you consider coming back to the rectory and having dinner with me tonight?”
“That’s very kind,” Joby said, startled by the priest’s generosity, though he dreaded such a conversation with this kind old man who’d thought so highly of him.
A cheerful blaze already crackled in the rectory hearth as they entered. A modest meal was laid out on the table. The old priest went to fetch a second set of dishes, insisting that Joby sit and warm himself. Moments later they were at the table, heads bowed, while Father Crombie thanked God for reuniting them.
It was just a hearty soup, a warm and fragrant loaf of bread, a simple salad, and a bottle of white wine, but it seemed tastier than any meal Joby could recall. Hoping to deflect Crombie’s impending questions, Joby quickly asked the priest where he’d gone off to so suddenly all those years ago.
“Oh, that was a sad affair,” the priest replied. “Seems the bishop had been finding some of my liberal views a bit offensive.” He took a spoonful of soup. “I was sent off to a poor urban parish in Chicago where I spent more time burying parishioners than preaching to them.” He shook his head sadly, and spooned more soup. “Those were hard days. I did the best I could, though, as did they.”
Joby shook his head in empathy. “I’ve gotten fired that way. Not a clue you’re in trouble, then, bam! You’re out the door.”
“Really?” Father Crombie said. “When was that?”
“It’s a boring story,” Joby said, regretting his carelessness. “How’d you get here?”
“Oh, that’s a long and boring story too.” Crombie smiled. “It seems I had detractors in Chicago as well. The superior who sent me to Taubolt had, happily, never been here and clearly imagined it nothing but the furthest outpost of un-civilization. Said he feared the damp air and rough rural life might be hard on my arthritic hips, which perhaps they have been, but the joke has been on him, Joby. I regard this place and its marvelous people as my life’s reward.” His bemused gaze wandered toward the fire.
“But enough of me,” Crombie said at last. “I am eager to hear of your life. I sense it may not be an easy tale, but I think you’ll find me a sympathetic listener.”
By now Joby saw that Father Crombie might know more about disappointment and disgrace than he’d expected. Still, he felt unprepared to answer.
“Tell me about Ben,” Crombie said, as if sensing his difficulty. “I was very fond of him, you know. You said it’s been a long time, but you’d still know more than I.”
“Ben liked you too,” Joby said. “I don’t think he cared for church much after you left.”
“Ah. That’s unfortunate.”
“I haven’t seen him since my freshman year at Berkeley.” Even now, the memory hurt. “He came out from school in Colorado to visit during spring break, but things weren’t going too well for me then.” Joby found himself drawn up short by the irony of this statement, given his current circumstances. “I was pretty lousy company, I guess.” In truth, he’d been worse than lousy company from the moment Ben had told him about Laura leaving school to marry some guy she’d supposedly met at an off-campus bar.
“What did you study there?” Father Crombie asked when the silence stretched.
Joby shrugged, and took a long pull of w
ine. He was going to have to do this. Why put a polish on it? “I studied expulsion, Father,” he said without meeting the old priest’s eyes. “I went through some bad depression my first year and flunked out of school. Ben came right in the middle of that, and wasn’t up for any second helpings, I guess. We wrote a few times afterward, and then just . . .” He fluttered his hands stupidly.
“And after your departure from Berkeley?” Crombie asked, unfazed.
What would it take to make him get it? Joby wondered. And then, Father, he imagined saying, I became an unemployed bum who’s accomplished nothing but getting a few good people killed—before coming here to beg for charity, that is.
“I got a degree in English at Hayward State,” he said instead.
Crombie watched him for a moment with the same kindly expression Joby remembered from their other conversation twenty years before. “And then things grew even harder, I take it,” he said at last.
Biting down hard on a sudden swarm of cynical responses, Joby nodded without looking up, trying to seem engrossed in his food.
“What brought you to Taubolt?” Crombie asked, refilling Joby’s wineglass.
“I ran away,” he said quietly, startled at his own candor. Then he set down his fork and looked Father Crombie in the eyes for the first time since he’d started talking. “A friend of mine was killed in Berkeley last week, Father, by policemen. . . . It was my fault.” He looked away, suddenly feeling only empty and exhausted. “I was so angry, if I’d stayed in Berkeley, I think I’d have done something terrible. . . . I meant to . . . do something terrible.”
He braced himself for a barrage of well-meaning questions, but all Father Crombie said was, “Taubolt seems a rather unusual place to run away to. Most people haven’t heard of it.”
“I came here with my family once as a kid,” Joby said, surprised and grateful to be released without interrogation. “My grandfather grew up here.”
Crombie, who had hardly blinked all evening, even at Joby’s reference to Gypsy’s death, suddenly looked startled. “Your grandfather is from Taubolt? What’s his name?”
The Book of Joby Page 30
